Black Waters: 167th Hunger Games
by kintouka
Summary: If a rebellion is a raging blaze, a revolution must be an undercurrent – still on the surface with the force of the ocean below. Someone, somewhere, is planning something big and each tribute must decide who can be trusted and who is capable of ruining everything they hold dear. SYOT (Open: 0/24)


**Black Waters: 167th Hunger Games (SYOT)**

If a rebellion is a raging blaze, a revolution must be an undercurrent – still on the surface with the force of the ocean below. Someone, somewhere, is planning something big and each tribute must decide who can be trusted and who is capable of ruining everything they hold dear. **SYOT (Open: 0/24)**

**...-...-...**

The water in the fens is still water, stained in sheets of gold dappled red. The only life that grows in this dead river are midges swarming the banks.

A man stands in the shade of the overgrown foliage, heat and dampness clinging to his skin and nothing in his eyes except the cold reflection of the water. There is a bundle at his feet and broken brambles and leaves scattered around him.

He has no concerns about anyone finding this place or caring to look past the black waters. The toxic earth keeps foragers and developers away, and if this place once had a name, it no longer exists in people's minds. The rivers in the fens may as well be in another world.

The bundle at his feet goes into the water, creating currents that ripple and twist, startling the midges and the scrawny birds in the treetops. After a few minutes, however, it settles to the bottom and the sheets of gold and red return. The water's surface is still once more.

A small ringtone chimes. Miles away, the bells in town are also ringing, the first of several warnings that the reaping will start soon.

The man slides his hands into his pockets and returns down the path of trampled brambles and leaves.

"I mustn't be late," he mutters to himself.

**...-...-...**

The Capitol is filled with light. Thousands of tiny artificial stars glow against the cold backdrop of the mountains.

From the balcony of a high-rise building, a young woman sighs into the wind and says, "The air is clear in the mountains. I'll miss it."

"You'll only be gone for a day," says the man standing in the doorway, a glass of a pink sparkling liqueur in his hand. Although she ordered it, the woman can't say she really feels like indulging now. She lets the man place it on the small table next to her and makes no move to drink it.

"A day too long! It might look nice in the videos, but Ten is full of livestock after all…It really stinks." The man listens intently as she speaks, a very pleasant and familiar smile on his face. She knows he probably doesn't care, and probably can't understand even if he does, but this is something she has learned to accept.

A person can't change in a day. Not unless they go through the Games. So, she would be unfair to expect it of him. If she had grown up in this bright, shining pearl of a city, she might never want to look away from its brilliance to see the ugly trash heaps behind it either.

"It won't be that long until we see each other again," he says, an attempt to reassure her no doubt. Instead, it leaves a shadowy and dismal sensation in her chest, and she reaches for the glass of sparkling liqueur after all.

It probably won't be that long, just as he says.

**...-...-...**

Of the thousands of questions he has been asked over the years, the ones concerning _him_ are the only ones that the reporters and interviewers never fail to ask. The nights before a reaping, when the media drives the citizens of the Capitol into a feverish frenzy, are the worst. They want every detail to be recounted and conveniently forget that it has been over twenty years since the 147th Hunger Games.

Memories fade over the course of twenty years whether one wants them to or not.

"Haha, I can't possibly remember what happened in _that_ much detail. In fact, if not for the recaps, I would have probably forgotten his face a long time ago."

He says these words whenever they ask him for a memory he wishes to keep for himself. The audience is easily taken in by his sharp yet nonchalant attitude, and the interviewer usually has the grace or common sense to stop pushing for answers he clearly refuses to give. He denies the same questions from year to year, never deviating, even perhaps forgetting a few details he recalled in previous years.

If he never admits that those memories existed, then the line of inquiry ends there.

"Oh, _okay!_" says the interviewer, the host of this year's kickoff event. Her voice is high and pleasant, like tiny bells at sunset or the twitter of birds in spring. She is new, a bit nervous judging by the slight crease in her brow and the stiffness of her smile. She wants this to work, and she knows that if she can't interview him, arguably the easiest of the Victors to work with, then her career has ended before it can even properly start.

He smiles and it's a very fair and charming thing with a hint of mischievousness, and the audience watching from the crowded stands don't even attempt to contain their excitement.

**...-...-...**

It took decades to eradicate the negative connotations of the bow as an arena weapon in the aftermath of the failed rebellion. The fact that the bow is one of the more difficult weapons has never helped matters. It was easy enough to drop it from the curriculum.

Over seventy five years after the Girl on Fire was snuffed out along with the rebellion she raised, District 2 has finally reopened its archery range. The program is flourishing, even if half of the students are only there because the Victor who popularized the bow as a proper Career weapon is one of the instructors here.

Silent and withdrawn, his few words filled with biting criticism, he is not what one would call a charismatic Victor. If it has nothing to do with the current lesson, he refuses to acknowledge the question. If it is advice for the Games, he answers with a terse, annoyed frown.

"Are you two going to be alright this year?" asked one of his fellow Victors, her easy-going grin a stark contrast to his solemn and dismissive scoff. "You're going to have to talk, you know. Actually talk, not just lecture and correct people on their posture."

His expression melts into a frown.

"I have mentored before," he points out.

"Yeah, but…" Looking at the displeased expression on his face, like a disgruntled cat, she sighs and shakes her head. "Never mind. Good luck this year."

"Good luck?" he says derisively.

"It's just an expression," she replies, sighing with a small huff punctuating the end of her sentence. It's just a good thing that their tributes are quite self-sufficient, otherwise she would end up really worrying about Two's future chances.

**...-...-...**

**I have always wanted to do one of these! The catch behind this year's Games is just as the summary says: revolution is around the corner, but who can you trust to be on the Districts' side, and who is working for the Capitol? Can you trust your District's Victors, or are they informants who will betray you?**

**Keeping this in mind, fill out the form on my profile if you're interested in joining! **

**Rules:**

**-No tribute limit, but if you submit more than two, the third must be a Bloodbath candidate.**

**-Reservations are allowed for four days. If you need any longer, just ask and we can work it out.**

**-I may make changes to your character(s) for the story. If it's something like a District change, I will consult with you first to see if you want to change anything. I may consult with you and the other submitters for alliances, too, as the story goes along.**

**-Submit by PM only. It makes things far easier to keep track of.**


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